


messages of love

by phantomreviewer



Series: it means 'tomorrow' [2]
Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Father-Son Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, Love Actually References, M/M, Meet the Family, Religious Guilt, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The knocking had started an undefinable amount of time earlier, blending into the background sounds of Connor’s childhood home. He was in his small cupboard room, door ajar as it had been since he had been a child. He wasn't sure if he had ever closed it. Ironically.</p><p>They had a doorbell. He didn’t know why whoever it was didn’t ring it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to/set in the same universe as 'Kid Gloves' however there is a slight tonal shift from character introspection to romantic comedy. The title is from the opening 'Love Actually' speech and that rather set the tone for this whole fic. 
> 
> There is, planned, at some point, a prequel to this fic, set after 'Kid Gloves' from Kevin's POV which might iron out the kinks between drama and rom-com.
> 
> Thanks, as ever, to slightlyookish, for hacking my grammar into shape and Americanising my vocabulary!

It should have been snowing. There should have been a howling dramatic wind. There should have been a Jacob’s Ladder shining through the clouds and highlighting his small little house, signifying something,  _ anything _ .

But if Connor had learnt anything it was that Heavenly Father moved in peculiar ways, and that the world was not focused on his happiness or designed to satisfy his need for the dramatic. Or to satisfy him at all. It was enough that he was allowed to be.

It would have been nice if it were snowing though: that would have set the scene perfectly.

But it didn’t tend to snow in Bountiful, especially not during the mildest March that the city had known for thirty years. In the awkward dinner conversation that Connor had come to expect from his parents, his mom had talked about how she remembered summers even as mild as this, and that the cloud cover was like to continue. It would be a dull summer, she’d predicted. She didn’t talk about Church at the table any more.

He’d be lucky if it rained, that at least would break up the monotony of the day.

It wasn’t going to snow. And nothing was set to change any time soon.

Connor didn’t go out much, now that he was home. Before his mission he’d had a vague plan for how his life was going to go once he was back in America, fresh from two years worth of missionary work. He was going to go to college, and meet a girl – because, of course, he would  _ want _ to meet a girl by then, the mission was going to do wonders for his own faith as well of those he was sent to proselyte – and then he would take off his gloves and have a soulmate. Well. At least one of those things had happened.

To say that his feelings were complicated about his soulbond would be a disservice to the multitudes contained within his own thoughts. The handprints reaching out across his face had reshaped everything.

He wasn’t ashamed of it. How could he? How could he be ashamed of divinely ordained love?

But it was hard. Harder than he had ever come to expect.

He couldn’t go to the Bountiful Tabernacle. He knew without being told, and despite the utter conviction and faith that had accompanied the instillation of  _ The Book of Arnold _ he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go back to that Church. It would be too cold, too formal, with too many rules and not enough laughter. And so much judgement.

Connor knew more about what he couldn’t do, than what he could.

There had seemed to be endless possibilities under the African sun, living in a place where soulmarks were free and everyone was happy and together and understanding.

He kept a copy of the book under his pillow. Prophet Cunningham had written on soulbonds too, and despite knowing exactly how this new gospel had been written – frantically, occasionally a group effort, with ideas being thrown around like candy and occasional brainstorming sessions, all overseen by Arnold Cunningham’s enthusiastic laughter and clapping – he still couldn’t help but sit and compare the passages from the book to The Book. Studying the two texts side by side, almost to ascertain meaning to the permanent pink prints. But the answer always came up the same. For, ‘the Lord so loved his people that He gifted them mortal understanding his divine love, and so came about the Mark’.

Love. The essence of it all, was love.

Sometimes it didn’t feel like love.

He had hardly known Kevin Price when the other man had touched him. It took Connor longer than he was proud of to have forgiven that first touch. It had not been the last.

His parents were more understanding than he could have ever expected.

Connor had to explain. He had had to come home. He had nowhere else to go, and after his mission had ended, unofficially as well as officially, he had had nothing else to do.

He couldn’t have stayed in Uganda even if he’d wanted to.

(Kevin had stayed.)

Without money and without worthwhile qualifications he’d had no choice but to go home. Arrangements could have been made from there, had they needed to happen. But he went home.

So he’d explained about Kevin, in the loosest way possible. Abstaining from as much of the blame as possible without throwing it onto Kevin’s shoulders. He was at pains to point out that he wore his gloves even through the heat of the summer, and that he had been running a failing district before his soulmate arrived.

“What’s his name, son?” His father had said, a man of few words, Connor’s father, “He owes us that much.”

“He doesn’t owe you anything,” Connor had replied, but even as he was saying it he understood his parents' point.

“Kevin Price, related to the Prices in Salt Lake City. But it wasn’t his fault, he was under a lot of pressure.”

Connor had also been under pressure, looking back on it, he had been under more pressure than he knew at the time. The chafing at his fingertips and the ache in his soul as he tried to be something that he wasn’t. But he wasn’t going to say that.

It was hard to put into words what had happened, or to justify all of his actions or even his thoughts. But he only had the consequences to live with.

He imagined that Kevin Price had had to have a similar conversation about his pink hands.

So his parents knew – but they didn’t know everything – they didn’t know what had come next.

He hadn’t explained the conversations, the closeness. Nothing had happened – despite the direction which his thoughts had sometimes wandered. There were unspoken suggestions, almost promises and the possibility of a perhaps.

But then Connor had come back, and Kevin had stayed. And Utah was huge and crowded and Connor was lonely. He was loved, which was more than he had expected, but he was lonely.

He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, go to Church with his mom and dad, at least not the Church where people saw pink and then looked right through him. Instead he looked up courses online, listened to the music that he had missed on his mission, and searched for Utah Pride on hidden browsing.

Didn’t know why he did it incognito.

His parents knew.

He couldn’t even blame his parents for their mindset, it had been their parents', and their parents’ parents. It had been his own for so many years. Such an isolated community, in the middle of a thriving, first world country. Sometimes he ached for the Mission Hut.

He should blame the Church. But while Connor kept his copy of  _ The Book of Arnold _ under his pillow, his copy of  _ The Book of Mormon _ was still on his desk, and still well read.

What if Joseph Smith had simply mistranslated the word of God, just as Elder Cunningham had done? There was a nugget of truth to the words, there had to be. But Heavenly Father was love itself, and Connor knew, despite the stares, and despite the scorn and despite the judgement, that Heavenly Father had never stopped loving him. It was not the revelation that Connor had expected. He had expected to shun the church that shunned him.

There would be a Church out there that didn’t know him. A progressive Church. A Church that would accept him, soulmark and all. Soul _ mate _ and all.

But that would be the future.

The present was loneliness. A trepid sense of acceptance, but it was as though a film had come over the world stopping Connor from interacting properly.

He needed to leave this city, weeks felt like months. Hours of silence felt like days.

He had texted Kevin four days ago and hadn’t had a response. He wasn’t sure that he had expected one.

Soulbonding was nothing like the films made it out to be. It was a start, not a solution. It wasn’t the happy ending that had been promised. It was a brand.

Arnold had made sure to put in his book that a soulbond was something that needed constant attention, you couldn’t imprint on each other and expect for the Angel Moroni to come down and solve all your relationship problems with a wave of his magic wand – he was just there to help you through couples therapy, you were next in line, right after Leia and Han.

Arnold’s stories were either incomprehensible or blatantly obvious.

He had expected Kevin to text him back.

Poptarts had sent him a vine of a cat stuck in a box.

He bookmarked the page and mentally thanked his Mission Companion. He would thank him in person next time they chatted on Skype. Chris was starting college, at BYU and happy and confident and dedicated to the Church, and still Connor’s friend. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be resentful. It wasn’t Chris’ fault that Connor was listless. It would take more than six weeks to restructure a life.

It was lonely when you weren’t on your mission.

The knocking had started an undefinable amount of time earlier, blending into the background sounds of Connor’s childhood home. He was in his small cupboard room, door ajar as it had been since he had been a child. He wasn't sure if he had ever closed it. Ironically.

He was half pretending to listen to music, more focused on the turmoil in his mind and the listless way time seemed not to pass, not knowing what was happening with his life when he finally noticed the knocking at the door. For a moment he had thought that thinking for a moment that the inconstant rhythm was part of the music. It was far too insistent for that.

They had a doorbell. He didn’t know why whoever it was didn’t ring it.

Idly he supposed that it could have been his mom coming back from her meeting. She hadn’t been shunned, for what her son was, surprisingly and Connor was pleased about that in a strange isolated way which he kept separate from the way that people he had known all his life refused to catch his eye. It was as though, in the minds of people who had seen him grow up that suddenly, Connor had never existed. That there was never a boy who loved superheroes, or a teenager who wore soft gloves, only a stranger with stranger soulmarks.

“- and on his  _ face _ ,” he had overheard Mrs Talbot saying to Mrs Pingree while running errands for his father, “I mean, some nerve flaunting it around like that.”

He had said nothing, just walked away.

He wasn’t flaunting anything, he was existing. But for now he had nowhere to go. Yes, he avoided Church.

The knocking continued, and Connor pulled out one earbud. The knocking got louder.

His father was in the kitchen, and people always looked strangely in Bountiful when they saw Connor and his pink printed face. He could imagine their shocked faces even through the frosted glass of the door.

He left the growing pounding on the door to his father and looked out the window instead.

It was mild and gentle, a light breeze and the approaching dusk. It should have been snowing.


	2. Part II

They weren’t expecting anyone to come to the house.

There was nothing written on the noticeboard in the kitchen, in his diary or pinned into the family online calendar providing an explanation to the current knocking at the door.

Marchelle wasn’t expected back for hours yet, she’d taken her keys and her phone, and her smile. He had more of an idle curiosity about the persistent knocking than an annoyance. He had risen above annoyance, had learnt to accept what he thought he never could. In comparison to that, an unexpected figure at the door was hardly worth a passing thought.

His thoughts were stuck on far more important events. On far more important people.

Carvel had accepted many things, but he didn’t necessarily like them. Things could never be the same again, Connor could never be the same again. Except, he knew that was not a fair judgement of his son. His son had been fighting against what had come to pass his entire life. Connor had never changed. Despite his efforts.

Carvel had seen how much his son struggled, and had struggled too in his turn. His hands had shaken when he had unwrapped the parcel with those same gloves in– he had been so proud when Connor had told the truth and had supported his efforts.

And then that awful note – that even to this day was kept hidden away in his desk. He should have thrown it away. But he couldn’t. Connor had always been an efficient writer, had been well read at school and always worked hard on his handwriting. It was one of the reasons he had been chosen to be district leader. And oh, that letter’s content.

His son was many things but he wasn’t a liar. He could not afford to be a liar now, with the marks clear on his face. Carvel had not responded well to the letter. He was grateful to Heavenly Father at how many months had stood between the arrival of the letter and the arrival home of Connor; had less time passed he might have done something rash that he knew he would regret to the end of his days.

Connor had looked so small, and so young when he arrived home.

He had left a man grown, standing tall and ready for the world, and he returned home tan and small, with fear of judgement in his eyes and two large pink handprints on his face.

Marchelle had hugged him, unable to hold herself back from her boy and Carvel had nodded, shook his hand and taken his bags.

Connor would always be their son.

They would all just have to make some adjustments.

He wouldn’t kick him out, his own flesh and blood with those terrible pink hands. The hands of Kevin Price. He knew of the Prices, Connor’s fourth cousin, once removed had married one – Emma, he thought her name was. Kevin Price. He supposed he had to get used to that name, there was a constant reminder of it.

At least there would be until Connor landed on his feet again.

He knew that most people- friends, family, acquaintances on the street, weren’t taking it well, even the people who didn’t know who had left those marks on his son – soulbonds, he had to remind himself that it was Heavenly Father’s divine love in mortal form, it should be a blessing, not a malady.

Even the people who just supposed that Connor had broken missionary rules and bonded out there with a girl were scandalized by the location – it just wasn’t done. It wasn’t proper.

By now, months after Connor’s return, and his purposeful distancing from the community and the Church, there weren’t many people left who didn’t know that there was more to the story than location.

Gossip spread like wildfire.

There was still the pounding on the door.

He did love his son.

He wasn’t sure that he did, for the longest time during those long months after a handwritten explanation and apology had been delivered. That was the worst of it, he hadn’t known that he loved his son. He had burnt with anger and with betrayal, but Heavenly Father had given him the strength for serenity.

Even so it still hurt to see that marred face, he did still love him.

Idly, Carvel wondered whether the door would hold with the ferocious knocking.

The frosted glass didn’t reveal who was behind it. There was only a slight silhouette against the porch light.

Carvel raised his hand to the frosted glass briefly, knowing that the person behind it could see the green lines of a soulmark. It was soft and romantic and utterly unbecoming, but he and Marchelle had done it for years. Ever since they had first bonded. As a way of signalling to the other that they were  _ home _ .

Sometimes he thought that that is why Marchelle would tell Connor the story of how they first touched, again and again. She must have hoped that Connor could carry on that same tradition. She’d never said as much, but Carvel knew his wife. His soulmate.

Connor couldn’t do that now. Not with that mark.

They hadn’t had any other children, Connor had been their only child, and loved all the more for it and it almost felt as though something had been taken away from them both, as well as Connor.

The knocking had seemingly grown in intensity, turning from polite, to pounding, to violent and demanding, as though all the person needed was to be inside of the house and Carvel pulled open the door.

The palm of the hand that was raised to bring down thunder on the whitewashed wood was a vivid pink in colour.

“Well, Kevin. I suppose you'd better come in.”

He should have been expecting this, for being the driving force in changing his son’s life, Carvel had heard little and seen less of this Kevin, and so Kevin had come to them. Come to Connor.

And Kevin Price, looking down at his hands and then hastily pressing them against the seam of his jeans, stepped into the McKinley family home.


	3. Part III

Kevin had never been to Bountiful before. Really, other than Orlando he hadn’t been  _ anywhere _ before his mission. Surely his parents must have taken them on other holidays, he had family in other states after all, but nothing had stayed in his mind like Orlando had. His life had been formed within an uneven triangle encompassing Salt Lake City, Orlando and Uganda. It was a very uneven triangle.

The world was larger now.

It included Bountiful. At least, this particular house, on this particular street, in Bountiful.

Connor had only ever mentioned his hometown in passing before, and it was more luck than judgement that Kevin had been able to trace the contact information for his old District Leader and his current… something else. The name Bountiful had stuck. It was appropriate.

If Kevin was telling himself the truth, almost everything Connor had ever said to him had stuck in his mind – the good and the bad. But he was still here, hands aching from knocking frantically, standing in Connor’s family home and not entirely sure why he was here.

He wasn’t expected.

Kevin hadn’t told Connor that he was going to visit, hadn’t even floated the idea towards him. It wasn’t planned or prearranged, but Kevin had had to see him. He hadn’t even texted Connor back. He had simply made the decision, rash as it was.

So he had come.

Kevin didn’t know the name of Connor’s father, but he would have known his soulmark. Connor had spoken about his family as an uneasy memory, he spoke of their love and their support and their soulbond with the haze of Uganda shifting perceptions of what life in America had truly been like. At least, that is how it had felt to Kevin when he thought of his family from Kitguli, he assumed that Connor felt the same way.

But then, Kevin had assumed a lot about Connor.

Connor’s father had the same stance as his son, he would have expected that to come from his mom, but no, his bearing was all Connor, the same light hair and the same square jaw. He must have expected his son to be what he was at that age. He seemed the type. He was staring Kevin down, even standing a few inches lower.

This had all the hallmarks of a bad idea.

He and Connor hadn’t spoken as much since getting back from Uganda – they should have all left together, it was ridiculous that Kevin and Arnold had stayed on those few extra weeks alone anyway – Arnold’s idea. The pair of them had arrived later than the other missionaries, and had to wrap up a few loose ends out in Africa. Arnold and Nabulungi had to make plans.

Kevin should have made plans.

Their separation had caused a rift, one that Kevin hadn’t known how to bridge. He had never felt as though he needed, or wanted, a soulmate. And he hadn’t known how to deal with one, with the theoretical idea of a person that something – be it science or Heavenly Father – had ordained as his, let alone the actualized physical presence of Connor, pink faced, proud and hiding himself.

His soulmate.

No, Kevin hadn’t known what to do. At least he hadn’t, not at the time. He thought he had an idea now, though.

They had spoken in the months since, a few texts, facebook messages and Kevin had even set up Skype. Kevin had felt something strange about seeing his own hands reflected in pink.

Those talks had been nothing like the conversations they used to have.

Kevin may have been hiding his hands, pressing them against the seams of his jeans under the watchful eyes of Connor’s father, but it was still just the two of them in the hallway. Connor was hiding himself.

“You know what you did to my son, do you regret it?”

It wasn’t the question that Kevin had expected from Connor’s father. He had expected questions, well, to be honest with himself, he hadn’t expected to be allowed in through the door. But here he was in Connor’s hallway. In the house where Connor grew into himself.

“No,” Kevin said, determined.

But he had to think about it. The question had hung in the air for the moments while Kevin composed his thoughts. He’d never focused on soulmarks, they hadn’t mattered – wouldn’t matter until he was back from his mission – and had never needed to think on it. All sorts of people had soulmarks, not just Mormons, and not everyone. Of all the things that had mattered to Kevin, soulmarks had been inconsequential. On their own the mark meant nothing, it wasn’t love, it wasn’t friendship, it was only the pixilation of skin cells and a seemingly random socio-biological reaction.

But this was Connor, it was different in his house.

No, he didn't regret it.

The moment itself seemed as though it happened in another life, or a dream. The pink staining on his hands was a fact, as opposed to a choice. He couldn't quite picture the moment when he reached for Connor’s face. It took until the village’s  _ incredible _ pageant for Kevin to be knocked out of his own mind in Uganda, and when he had looked down his hands were pink.

It just was, it was something that he undeniably did, but it was a part of his new life. Arnold was his best friend, he embraced his doubts, and Connor was… They shared a bond.

Kevin didn’t know if that was the right answer.

But Connor’s father huffed, absorbing the statement, and his jaw tightened only momentarily. He didn’t look away from Kevin’s face to call for Connor, in a not too loud voice, up the stairs.

A creak, a mumble, a step, and Connor appeared. Pale and pink faced all at once when he made eye-contact with Kevin. In that moment, with Connor looking ruffled, and young, and confused, and utterly unlike the bubbly, determined and almost false district leader that he had known, in that moment Kevin was surer of himself than he had been in a long while. He knew that his feeling was right. The reason that he had to come here, that he had to see Connor, to talk to him. It was almost ridiculous.

They were soulbonded, regardless of whether anyone – even themselves – liked it, or approved.

But now, in this moment, Kevin was in love.

“Kevin?”

Kevin had never understood the scenes in the movies when lovers recreate their first touch, desperately pressing into the imprinted colour, often sighing about how they thought they would never see the other again, one or other of the bonded pair tended to be holding a fragile object to be dropped beforehand for added dramatic effect– but now Kevin’s hands were moving up as Connor moved down the stairs and it was only the short distance and the presence of Connor’s father that stopped him. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to touch Connor.

He wanted to feel that colour. They hadn’t touched like that since he’d first reached up for Connor’s face, in the days when Connor was still just Elder McKinley and Kevin hadn’t been thinking of how his actions impacted other people.

And still, he didn't regret it. Because he couldn’t be sure that without that foolish action, that he would still have this.

“Now. I obviously know who you are, Kevin Price. I’m Connor’s father, Carvel McKinley. I think we should have a chat before Connor’s mom gets home. Don’t you?”

Kevin knew better than to look up at Connor during this moment, and had his full attention on Connor’s father -on Carvel- as he extended a hand towards Kevin. For a moment he wondered if it was a trap, he wasn’t sure how it was a trap, or what the benefit of that would be. After all, from Connor’s words, his parents were still proper Mormons. And welcoming Kevin into their home, only to send him away again could technically be constituted as a lie.

Kevin could see Carvel’s delicate green soulmark up close – his own parents didn't have a mark, maybe that was why the concept of soulbonding mattered less to Kevin, it had never been a matter for concern, there had always been other things that Heavenly Father needed as opposed to Kevin’s own contentment and earthly happiness – and contrasted it with the pink smeared across both of his own hands, and extending onto Connor’s face.

He shook Connor’s father’s hand. Carvel McKinley smiled, small and tight.

But it was a smile.

Connor beamed.


	4. Part IV

The big romantic gesture, Kevin had done that for him.

Kevin had come to his house, had pounded on the door just to talk to him. He didn’t even know how Kevin had gotten here, had he ever told Kevin exactly where he lived? In the back of his mind Connor had almost bought into Kevin’s facade of perfection; it was as though Kevin should just know everything about Connor. Of course, he knew from dramatic experience that that wasn’t how the world worked, and it was cruel to put assumptions of perfection onto Kevin Price.

It was Kevin’s imperfections that made Connor accept those handprints.

It was Kevin’s imperfections that had him making awkward small talk with his family just to be with him. Kevin was talking to his father and answering his questions and standing his ground and being brave and resilient, and then adeptly dealing with his mom’s swiftly hidden tears and then her endless questions, and he was holding Connor’s hand as though it were nothing and everything all at once.

That almost meant more than the soulmark itself, a touch that didn’t stain but was complete in its own intentions, but that casual touch also made the mark itself worth more.

Heavenly Father didn’t pick wrong, He could never make a mistake, this was supposed to happen – perhaps not in the way that it did, he still smarted and hurt and while his Hell Dreams were less frequent with his limited participation with the church (if Connor was honest with himself he didn’t like to think about the connection) sometimes they still involved the Mission President’s scorn, or the words thrown around by Jesus or the devils turned personal – but the outcome. Oh, the outcome was perfect.

Connor shouldn’t have been thinking of Hell Dreams or the Mission President, and especially not Jesus, at this moment.

Not now, not when he’d been given his mom’s car keys and told to drive Kevin to a motel. Kevin had apparently passed whatever test his parents had set for him, with soft words and endearing wide smiles, and his dad had clapped Kevin on the shoulder and his mom had wrung her hands together, but had smiled.

It was more than Connor had ever expected, but he supposed that Kevin could charm the birds from the trees if he tried hard enough. Connor’s kind-hearted parents might not have posed that much of a struggle to him. Although, the way that Kevin clutched at his hand now they were alone could have indicated differently. They needed some time to talk, just the two of them. They needed to know what they were.

Kevin couldn’t stay in the house, his parents had been adamant about that. People would talk. But Connor could take his mom’s car and drive Kevin, alone, to a motel, at night, unsupervised as long as he was back before 9pm. His parents had always been trusting, but then Connor had always tried his best to earn that trust. The illogic was clear, but Connor wouldn’t object. Not when it gave him an excuse to talk to Kevin, in full privacy, perhaps for the first time ever.

There had always been so many people in Uganda.

There were only a few people out on the streets now, and none of them looked towards the car once Connor pulled it up to the curb, a short stop away from the motel with the best review on tripadvisor. Apparently they had cheap and safe lockers, but Kevin hadn’t brought anything with him. It was just Kevin, the clothes on his back and the money in his wallet.

He hadn’t packed, he’d not planned. He had just come. Because he wanted to be with Connor.

Connor could swoon; if he hadn’t been sitting down and perfectly hydrated. But, the intention was there.

They sat in silence for a moment, with Connor’s hands resting in his lap. He looked between Kevin and the windscreen. They needed to talk, they should talk. But for the moment Connor didn’t know what to say.

But when Connor was speechless, Kevin could always be relied on to fill the gaps and to speak.

“Can I just?” Kevin started, and once he had started talking there was no stopping him. “There’s something I want to do, and I know that we have things to say and I’m sorry for barging in on your life and just  _ expecting _ but, please?”

Kevin hadn’t articulated exactly what it was that he wanted, but Connor thought that he knew. Either way he moved, face and body turned towards Kevin in assent, and then. Kevin’s hands were on his face again.

Perfectly aligning, and it didn’t feel any different to when Connor touched the marks himself. It was just skin, just Connor, and yet. He was back in the moment, that moment when skin contact was so rare and Kevin Price was so close.

“I think I was going to kiss you then,” Connor said.

He was a breath away from Kevin, the only way to take up the position, to recreate the moment in his mom’s car rather than in the Mission Hut.

It was a confession that Connor couldn’t make to himself at the time, the power of proximity to Kevin Price, but he almost whispered it against Kevin’s lips in the near darkness of the car.

“I think I’m going to kiss you now,” Kevin replied.

And Connor would have cringed at the line, except it worked and he melted infinitesimally closer and then he was kissing Kevin Price.

His soulmate. With warm hands cupped against his face, and blush bleeding into bond. Kevin was smiling against his lips and was warm where Connor reached out to him. It felt clumsy, with all the fumbling that Connor had expected from a lifetime of romantic films, but it felt perfect as well. Perfect in its imperfection. Like Kevin. Like himself. Like the world that Heavenly Father had made.

“I didn’t say it,” Connor said into the spaces between them that Kevin had to pull away into so that there was room for his smile, “I’ve missed you. I missed you then, and I miss you now. It’s not perfect but it will be ours. We’ll be together.”

“Yes,” Kevin agreed, fingers moving against Connor’s face. Tracing the soulbond as though he couldn’t help himself. Connor couldn’t help the smile reach up his face to meet Kevin’s fingers.

“We will.”


End file.
